Chapter Two

Lin Feng did not further trouble the Eight Banners soldiers who had surrendered. He simply divided the prisoners and placed them under strict guard. Leaving a garrison in Fengtai, his troops immediately set out for the capital. Almost upon their return, he received a triumphant report from Zhao Guangyuan: Tongzhou, whose defenses were even weaker than Fengtai’s, had already fallen to his cavalry. Finally, the grain and supplies hoarded by the Ministry of Revenue, once mere words on a ledger, had become tangible assets safely received into his own hands—a great weight lifted from Lin Feng’s heart.

On the journey back, Lin Feng took the opportunity to reorganize his thoughts. His nerves had been taut for days, and he hadn’t truly rested, so his mind felt clouded. Assessing the current situation, he realized he was in a precarious position—much like a player in a ruthless strategy game. The rules were merciless: no quitting, no failure; the only consequence of defeat was death, with no chance to start over. Judging by the "battlefield," the formidable NPC bosses arrayed against him were Wu Sangui, Zheng Jing, Galdan, and several Manchu princes in the south. His goal was to eliminate these antagonists—not for experience or rank, but for mastery over China and the seat in the Forbidden City.

Zhongnanhai, west of the imperial palace and part of the “Three Western Lakes” along with Beihai, was also called Taiye Pool. Compared to the grandeur of the main palace, its buildings were delicate and unobtrusive and had thus escaped major destruction during the assault on the Forbidden City. When Lin Feng established his headquarters here, Chen Menglei had tried to dissuade him, arguing that the site lacked both prestige and defensibility. With Beijing only just pacified, the lakes provided ideal cover for assassination attempts by Qing loyalists, and transportation was less than convenient, hampering efficiency. Yet Lin Feng had refused, and Chen Menglei was left puzzled, sensing Lin Feng’s peculiar attachment to the place—as if he believed it to be a site of rare good fortune.

Before long, Lin Feng’s officers assembled. Sitting at the center, Lin Feng regarded them with interest. The difference between civil and military officials was clear: on his left, Zhou Peigong and Chen Menglei looked sallow and haggard, clearly suffering from sleepless nights, while on the right, Zhao Guangyuan, Wang Dahai, and Liu Laosi were ruddy and cheerful, evidently having enjoyed themselves these past few days. Only Yang Haisheng seemed out of sorts, quietly sulking. Lin Feng found this odd. “Haisheng, what’s the matter on your end? Is there some trouble?”

“Sir!” Yang Haisheng shot to his feet and saluted Lin Feng, then, turning abruptly, pointed an accusing finger at Chen Menglei across the room. “Sir, this fellow Chen is no good! Damned—”

Startled, Lin Feng cut off Yang’s crude tirade. “Haisheng, mind your tongue! Old Chen may be new here, but from now on he’s one of us. We’re all brothers in the same pot. Saying such things will only chill your comrades’ hearts!”

Yang flushed deep red. “Boss—no, sir, that’s not what I meant…” He steadied himself. “Sir, my men found an old enemy in the capital. He’s now a general in the court’s service. You may not know, but this man used to hunt us on the seas—many of my brothers died by his hand. I thought this was my chance for revenge, but this Chen fellow… this scholar blocked me from killing him! Our own man sides with outsiders—how does that make sense?”

“Oh? Is that so?” Lin Feng understood at once—it was likely a former local official from Zhejiang or Fujian, who had made enemies with Yang Haisheng while suppressing piracy. He turned to Chen Menglei. “Old Chen, if Haisheng wants his vengeance, let him have it. It’s just a minor official. We’ve killed plenty of emperors and princes; who knows how many more we’ll kill? Our reputation for ‘not sparing the surrendered’ is already ruined—we might as well act as we please…”

“My lord!” Chen Menglei’s expression was calm, a faint smile on his sallow face. “This is a man who must not be killed!” Seeing Lin Feng’s surprise, he continued, “Shi Lang, General of the Sea Pacification, is a formidable warrior. Without your approval, I took the liberty of persuading him to surrender…”

“Shi Lang?! General of the Sea Pacification?!” Lin Feng was stunned, leaping to his feet and staring at Chen Menglei. “Is this the same Shi Lang who defected from the Zheng family in Taiwan, renowned for his naval prowess?”

“Not only is he a master of naval warfare, but also a skilled commander on land. When he defended Jinmen and Xiamen, he resisted a massive Qing assault—proof enough of his strategic genius!” Chen Menglei grinned. “Shi Lang is my fellow countryman. After he fell out with Zheng Chenggong, he was forced to serve the Qing, but in Beijing he was left idle and humiliated by Kangxi. After my persuasion, General Shi agreed to join our cause!”

Before Chen Menglei could finish, Lin Feng’s face broke into a wide smile. “Old Chen, Shi Lang is famous! You don’t know—later, even the Kangxi Emperor relied on him to recover Taiwan… Ahem…” Lin Feng quickly checked himself, coughing awkwardly, and turned to Yang Haisheng. “Haisheng, I never realized you were so petty! On the battlefield, death is inevitable. Now that he’s surrendered, how can we be so narrow-minded? Let the world’s heroes mock us for lacking magnanimity? Have you ever heard the opera of Lord Guan’s lone ride for a thousand miles? After he slew so many of Cao Cao’s soldiers, Cao still spared him when he surrendered. Are we to be more villainous than even the infamous white-faced traitors?” He clapped Yang Haisheng on the shoulder. “Surely you can let it go?”

“But… just like that?” Yang Haisheng faltered, uncertain.

After this brief commotion, the meeting continued, focusing on military matters. Zhao Guangyuan, returning from Tongzhou, brought Lin Feng another surprise: he had found a small imperial stud farm there and captured over two thousand warhorses. Including those seized from the Fengtai garrison and gathered in the capital, Lin Feng’s army now had nearly five thousand horses—a remarkable gain. In fact, the Beijing garrison had little cavalry, but the Eight Banners, descended from nomads, kept many horses outside the imperial stables for personal use. These steeds were of excellent quality, well-trained, and in some cases superior to those in active service. Now, they had all fallen into Lin Feng’s hands—horses once reserved for aristocrats’ leisure rides would now serve his army in battle.

Lin Feng also had great confidence in Rick. From his long acquaintance, he was certain this battle-tested, dedicated European officer could train a modern force. Even without Rick, Lin Feng would have built a firearms corps eventually. After all, Europeans weren’t born knowing how to fire guns and cannons—everything is learned through trial and error. Failure is no disaster; doing nothing is the only true waste.

With Lin Feng’s firm insistence, this matter was settled: the army would be divided into three main divisions—Zhao Guangyuan’s cavalry, Lin Feng’s firearms unit, and an infantry force led by Liu Laosi with Zhou Peigong as his deputy. The total strength was around eighteen thousand, most of them raw recruits with questionable combat value. Without two or three months of intensive training, they might not even be fit for the battlefield.

Yet these challenges did nothing to dampen the officers’ spirits. With Beijing conquered and the emperor dead, what was there to fear from any governor or viceroy? The soldiers’ thinking was simple: with ten thousand men and so many cannons, who would dare threaten them?

In contrast to the jubilant generals, the two scholars present were far more serious. Zhou Peigong, watching the animated officers, hesitated to speak. Lin Feng noticed and smiled, “Speak your mind, Peigong. Isn’t this a meeting?”

Zhou Peigong exchanged a glance with Chen Menglei, then stood and said gravely, “General, should our army not have a name?”

“A name? What… kind of name?” Lin Feng was momentarily at a loss.

“In ancient times, even Chen Sheng and Wu Guang, rising against Qin, called themselves ‘Zhang Chu.’ Our noble army lacks a name…”

“Oh, so that’s it!” Lin Feng understood at last, but found himself in a quandary. This was a delicate matter. If he chose poorly, he could become a laughingstock. Though he came from a later era and was well-versed in science, he was helpless with traditional and classical matters. Naming an army or a country, even choosing a style name, was difficult for him. After a long pause, he sighed, “Well… do you gentlemen have any suggestions?”

Zhou Peigong and Chen Menglei looked at one another, then rose together and replied, “Our lord is a man of great talent; we await your lead!”

Great talent, my foot! Lin Feng smiled wryly. Zhou Peigong had always believed him a learned scholar, not knowing he could barely read traditional characters. After a moment’s thought, he remembered countless novels and films from his own time. The most popular slogan was “Expel the Tartars, restore the Han lands.” Such a banner might win much support. Settling his mind, he slapped his forehead. “Enough, let’s not overthink it. We’ll call ourselves the ‘Han Army’—after all, we’re driving out the Manchus and reclaiming our Han people’s country!”

Zhou Peigong was taken aback. “The ‘Han Army’? How can that be?” He hurried over and whispered, “General, your surname is Lin, not Liu. This… the name is not proper…”

“So only those surnamed Liu can call themselves the Han Army? What reasoning is that?” Lin Feng looked at him curiously. Zhou was talented, but still a bit stuck in the old ways. “Aren’t we all Han? In these times, who cares about such things?”

Seeing Zhou Peigong and Chen Menglei’s anxious faces, Lin Feng realized he had to sound a note of idealism, or these two would never be convinced. “Gentlemen, do you think I lead these men through death and bloodshed for personal gain? All these brothers risking their lives—just to make me, Lin, rich and powerful?”

At this, everyone’s expression grew odd. Only recently, in Zhejiang, Lin Feng had been eager to serve the Qing. Now, with the tides turned, he spoke with high-minded righteousness—quite astonishing. But of course, no one was foolish enough to call him out.

“So I, Lin Feng, will never put myself above all. As long as the Manchus are driven out, I don’t care who sits the throne. Since that’s so, why fuss over surnames? Our name is ‘Han’—no other meaning. The Han Army is the Han people’s army, fighting the Manchus, avenging our people!”

His words carried real force. The officers immediately broke into applause and cheers, the atmosphere growing exuberant. Zhou Peigong looked at Chen Menglei and gave a helpless smile. “Well, so be it. Han Army, Han Army… it’s actually not bad.”

Chen Menglei, seeing Lin Feng’s resolve, smiled and agreed. “There’s nothing amiss with the name ‘Han’—it has deep roots. In the Eastern and Western Han, we Han people were feared across the lands, subduing the south and repelling the Xiongnu in the north, ruling for centuries. If we can revive Han might, it would be a third empire!”

Lin Feng laughed heartily, clapping Chen Menglei on the shoulder. “Well said, Old Chen! The third empire… third empire?!” He gasped, suddenly startled. “The third empire?!”

“Yes, sir! Is there something wrong?” Chen Menglei looked at him in surprise.

“Oh, nothing… Just a toothache earlier.”